The Problems of Procreation
by cactusnell
Summary: An old acquaintance asks Sherlock for a "donation" of sorts. What will he do about it?


The three men, friends on a number of levels, sat, exhausted, in the sitting room at 221B Baker Street sipping tea served by an elderly landlady, and commiserating about their lives.

"I am bloody done-in," John Watson was the first to speak. "And soon I have to go home to a toddler who refuses to sleep, and a wife who wants to do nothing but, if you get my drift."

"You could always stay here, John," Sherlock Holmes offered.

"Married men do not get to have sleepovers, Sherlock. Not that you'll ever find out!"

"Is that true, Grant?", the detective asked the morose looking DI who had collapsed on the couch.

"In my experience, it's very true, mate. However, my wife did engage in a series of sleepovers, though, which resulted in her being my ex-wife."

"How is the ex-Mrs. Lestrade, Greg?", John asked. "Last I heard, you were, uh, dating her again."

"If you mean, I had the privilege of buying her dinner, and taking her to see a film, while someone else got to have the sleepover, well, it's over. Again. Almost…"

"Almost?"

"Yeah, well, she made a very strange request, actually. It seems her biological clock is ticking up a storm, and while she doesn't like me very much, she is rather fond of our kids. She thinks we make excellent offspring, as it were, and she would like a donation…"

"A donation?" Sherlock's interest had been aroused.

""Yeah. I get to buy her dinner, and deposit a specimen in a cup. Or a tube. Or whatever. She wants another kid! She just doesn't want me, in any way, shape, or form!"

"Interesting," Sherlock muttered.

"You're not going to do it, are you, Greg?", John Watson asked, almost dumbfounded at the possibility.

"I don't think so, mate. Although I do like the idea of having another kid. Maybe a boy, this time."

"Don't you think you've made a sufficient contribution to the world population, Graham?" Sherlock said archly.

"Well, maybe I'm just making up for gits like you, Sherlock!"

"Ah, you think that I have given up on the idea of reproducing? In fact, I have just had a rather similar request from an old, uh, colleague from my university days."

John Watson now sat up attentively. "Really, Sherlock. This sounds good! Come on, spill it!"

"Nothing much to 'spill', John. A woman with whom I was acquainted has made a request that I father her child…"

"Just how well do you know this woman? And are you considering it? Is she in London?"

"I knew her, uh, quite well. She was part of my social milieu, as it were. And, no, she is not currently in London. She resides in Edinburgh…"

"So, this donation, would not be made in person…"

"Her preference was that it would be, of course. But I am loathe to do that. She has finally relented, as I fabricated the excuse that my significant other would not tolerate any extraneous sexual activity, and agreed to accept a frozen sample, if and when I agree…"

"I need something stronger than tea, if we're going to continue this discussion, Sherlock," John said as he went in search of the excellent Scotch, stolen from Mycroft Holmes, which Sherlock always had on the premises. He returned shortly with the bottle and three mismatched glasses, the only clean ones he could find in the flat. Pouring the amber liquid into the glasses, he remarked that this was a much more suitable way for three grown men to spend a Friday evening, rather than sipping tea from an elderly woman's good china. "Continue, please, Sherlock."

Each man drank a heavy swig of the inhibition releasing whiskey before the detective continued. "Why are you so curious, John? Surely, you are familiar with the practice of artificial insemination, being a doctor, after all."

"I am more than familiar with the practice, you git. I made some pocket money during my uni days supplying, uh, material, to the local sperm bank."

"Really, John? I always miss something, don't I?"

Greg Lestrade sunk further into the couch, wondering just how far this conversation would go, and thinking that this evening was shaping up much better than he expected. John continued, "I did pretty well for a while. Med student. Relatively intelligent. Blond. Borderline attractive. My genetic material was in some small demand, but…"

"But, let me guess, John. You were overly honest about your height, weren't you? You should have tacked on a few inches. People would not have noticed. It's not as if anyone would have known. Exaggerating a bit about size is not unheard of in the male of the species quest to reproduce."

"I have never had to exaggerate in that respect, Sherlock!"

"Of course not, John. I was not suggesting that you had. I'm sure that Mary is more than satisfied…"

"Don't try to deflect from the topic, Sherlock. Will you, or won't you? Ot did you, or didn't you?"

"Clarify, please?"

"You have hinted that you were more than just acquainted with this woman, Sherlock. I thought that you did not indulge in such things…"

"Just because I do not currently indulge, John, does not necessarily mean that I have never indulged. I was young. And I am a scientist at heart. You know how a scientist must experiment. Not to mention the fact that I was high most of the time! And I have never said that I had anything against sex, per se, merely the time wasted, and the distraction involved, in pursuing a relationship."

"So, not a virgin, then? Tell me, Sherlock."

"I never said I was, as I recall."

"And you were involved in a relationship with this woman, then?"

"I never said that, either. While some members of the group did involve themselves in the pursuit of romantic partners, somewhat like hunting and stalking prey, to my mind, I tended to espouse a sort of 'catch and release' philosophy…"

"You were promiscuous, then?"

"If you have to apply a label, then, I suppose…", he was interrupted by Gred Lestrade's loud guffaw from the couch. "Sherlock Holmes, the bloody virgin, was, in fact, a himbo! A manwhore! A player! A stud! A tart!" Greg took another swig of whiskey. "Bloody hell! You think you always miss something? And this request is from a woman, right? Of course it is! So, no men, huh?"

"There was the occasional experiment, but my primary focus was on the female segment of the population, Gareth."

Greg Lestrade raised a fist in triumph. "Just won twenty pounds, Sherlock. Ta, very much!"

John Watson was laughing a bit as he followed Greg's example, swallowing a bit more Scotch, before he said, "So, while I was working hard in some uninspiring booth in the back of some fertility clinic, you were out giving it away…"

"For free, yes John. I was a somewhat more charitable person in my youth!", the detective said with a snicker.

John gathered himself, sat a bit more upright, and tried to speak seriously. "So what have you two decided? Fatherhood, or not?"

"Been there, done that," Lestrade said with a heavy sigh. "And I much prefer the old fashioned way, even if my wife, or ex-wife, doesn't! So, no, I'll not be going down that road."

Dr. Watson then turned his attention to his best friend.

"No, John. At least, not with this particular woman. The crowd with which I associated were not the most desirable, once you got beyond the physical. I am enough of a egoist to think that my genetic material deserves a more advantageous environment in which to develop. So, no, John, I will not be the one to turn off the alarm on that particular biological clock."

The tea had long since grown cold, so the three men finished off the bottle of Scotch, and finally departed to their respective beds, two of which were rather lonely.

Sherlock lay in his room, thinking about everything which his rather uncharacteristic confessional to his friends had brought to mind. Did he want children? He had never truly considered the subject before. But seeing how happily John and Mary had settled in with their daughter had begun to change his mind. He seemed to be the only one, among his immediate acquaintances, who was completely alone. John, of course, had Mary. Lestrade had his ex-wife, at least occasionally, and various attractive woman between these occasions. Anderson had a wife, and Sally Donovan on the side. The man was a glutton for punishment! Mrs. Hudson had the butcher, the baker, and, possibly, the candlestick maker, if such an occupation still existed. Mummy had Papa, and vice versa. And Mycroft had Anthea, if his deductions were correct, and they always were. Why couldn't he bring himself to acquiesce to the woman's request, and leave a bit of himself behind in this world? Because, despite the fact that he had used the excuse of a disapproving "significant other" in his demurral, he knew, in fact, that there was someone who was significant in his life, whether she knew it or not. And he knew, or rather, hoped, that she would not approve of such an action. It took quite a bit of time for him to doze off that night, his mind busying itself with possibilities.

By the time he arrived at Molly Hooper's flat the following day for their usual Saturday evening get together, Sherlock was still a bit unsure about a course of action. He was determined to broach the subject, but unsure of how to begin. Molly and he had become rather good friends of late, spending almost every Saturday evening together, eating take away and watching telly. She seemed to have given up on her pursuit of the rather unsuitable, in Sherlock's view, at least, escorts she preferred, and settled in to a rather comfortable spinsterhood. Not happy, Sherlock noted, merely comfortable. Perhaps what he was about to suggest would shake up her life, add some sense of fulfillment. He let himself into her flat, arms full of food and drink, and a stomach full of butterflies.

"Well, if it isn't the manwhore of Cambridge University!" Molly greeted him with a rather accusatory smile.

Sherlock had the grace to blush as he spoke, "I see you've been talking to John, Molly."

"No, it was Mary, actually! She was rather impressed." Molly giggled a bit as she took one of the bags, and led him toward the kitchen. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, given your history of drug use, and your immersion in that sort of lifestyle…"

"Don't make excuses for me, Dr. Hooper. I was a complete arse. I still am, but in different ways." Sherlock spoke with some regret.

"Just tell me one thing. I can understand your need to give up drugs. But sex, Sherlock? It's so basic…"

"I didn't particularly give up on sex, Molly. Just all the distracting effort to pursue it! The romance part. I need the work to distract me from the drugs. The pursuit of romance, I reasoned, would distract me from the work, and leave me vulnerable. I don't like being vulnerable, as you well know."

"But you were really considering fathering a child with that woman?"

"For about five minutes, maybe. There's something primal about the call to reproduce, don't you think? The evolutionary imperative, so to speak."

"You just want to see a little mini-Sherlock walking around in a tiny Belstaff, and a fitted suit, you git!"

"He'd be adorable, don't you think?"

"Perhaps you should consider putting your considerable intellectual talents into cloning research, Sherlock?"

"Mycroft is working on that as we speak, Dr. Hooper, but progress is going rather slowly. I do believe he's currently putting all his eggs into Anthea's basket. Or something like that. Something involving eggs, and Anthea, at least…"

"Ah, I thought so. He's been looking particularly smug lately, don't you think?"

"Smug. Content. Happy, even. Damn it!" Sherlock was now sitting at the kitchen table, foraging through the cartons of takeaway food, while Molly opened a bottle of wine. "It's not that I begrudge him a bit of happiness. It's just that I hate to think that the entire Holmes genetic legacy will be carried forward by an overbearing know-it-all with a receding hairline and a tendency toward cake!"

"Little mini-Mycrofts, all carrying brollies, and texting like crazy!" Molly was giggling a bit at the mental image of such a parade of toddling bureaucrats.

"Very funny, Molly. Surely we could do better?"

Molly Hooper almost choked on the food she had just deposited in her mouth. "What do you mean, Sherlock?"

"I did tell my former friend that my significant other would object to any arrangement which involved sex. Or, in fact, procreation with anyone other than herself. You would, wouldn't you?"

"I would, indeed, object, if I were that significant other…"

"I have told you that you matter. That you, in truth, matter the most. Does not that imply some level of 'significance', Molly?"

"I suppose…"

"Then, that's settled. The only thing left to decide is how to proceed…"

"What?"

"I have already explained that, due to my issues, the distraction of the pursuit is not a viable alternative. So I suggest we carry on as if this has already been accomplished. We have known each other for seven long years. You have always been inordinately attached to me. And I find that you are the single most important person in my life, and I see no reason for this to change, even with the addition of offspring. You will make an amazing mother, while I will be, in all likelihood, a distracted, occupied, dismissive, detached parent. But I will love and care for our children, Molly…"

"Because they're yours, of course, you egotistical git…" the pathologist tried to ease the tension with a bit of humor.

"No, Molly, because they're ours!"

And that was all it took. All Molly Hooper's resistance, what little there was, collapsed at once. Tears began to form in her eyes, happy ones. But the detective wasn't so sure that they were!

"Molly, please, I didn't mean to upset you! If I'm asking too much of you, please say so. We can continue on as we are, until you find someone who deserves you…"

"Yes."

"What, Molly? Please clarify. 'Yes" what? You'd carry my children? Or we continue as we are? If it's the later, I understand. But if it's the former, there are things we need to discuss…"

"Start discussing then, while I blow my nose."

"Well, we have to decide how to accomplish…"

"I would prefer the old-fashioned methodology, Sherlock. If you don't mind. I know it's been a number of years since you retired you title as a 'womanizer', but I understand that it is rather like riding a bicycle. Once you learn…"

"I am sure my skills are intact, Dr. Hooper. But it is not an exact science. It make take any number of tries…"

"I'm counting on it, Mr. Holmes. Especially since I'm still on the pill!"

"Good. That should give us sufficient time to practice. And to move you to Baker Street. And to plan a wedding…"

"A wedding?"

"I told you I have no patience for the pursuit, Molly. I thought we'd cut to the chase. You. Me. Kids. Happily after after. Do you object?"

"Not at all. But what if we don't have a boy, Sherlock? No mini-you. No little Belstaff."

"It was you who envisioned that, Molly. In my mind, my spawn are all delicate little girls with huge brown eyes." He smiled. A real, genuine smile, as he took her hand and drew her closer, pulling her in for a long, passionate kiss. "But be prepared, love. Given the gene pool into which you're about to dive, there's more than a slight chance that one of them will have a receding hairline, and large appetite for cake!"


End file.
